Anne Bronte

Poor restless dove,
I pity thee;
And when I hear thy plaintive moan,
I mourn for thy captivity,

Gloomily the clouds are sailingO'er the dimly moonlit sky;
Dolefully the wind is wailing;
Not another sound is nigh;
Only I can hear it

While on my lonely couch I lie,
I seldom feel myself alone,
For fancy fills my dreaming eye With scenes and pleasures of its own.
Then I may cherish at my breast An infant's form beloved and fair

Why should such gloomy silence reign,
And why is all the house so drear,
When neither danger, sickness, pain,
Nor death, nor want, have entered here?

What though the Sun had left my sky;
To save me from
The blessed Moon arose on high,
And shone serenely there.

O, let me be alone a while,
No human form is nigh.
And may I sing and muse aloud,
No mortal ear is by.

In all we do, and hear, and see,
Is restless Toil and Vanity.
While yet the rolling earth abides,
Men come and go like ocean tides;

I have gone backward in the work,
The labour has not sped,
Drowsy and dark my spirit lies,
Heavy and dull as lead.

1 O raise those eyes to me
And smile again so joyously,
And fear not, love; it was not
Nor grief that drew these tears from me;

That summer sun, whose genial
Now cheers my drooping spirit
Must cold and distant be,
And only light our northern

Oh, they have robbed me of the
My spirit held so dear;
They will not let me hear that
My soul delights to hear.

A fine and subtle spirit
In every little flower,
Each one its own sweet feeling
With more or less of power.

I hoped, that with the brave and strong,
My portioned task might lie;
To toil amid the busy throng,
With purpose pure and high.

How brightly glistening in the sun
The woodland ivy plays!
While yonder beeches from their barks
Reflect his silver rays.

Oppressed with sin and woe,
A burdened heart I bear,
Opposed by many a mighty foe:
But I will not despair.

I have slept upon my couch,
But my spirit did not rest,
For the labours of the
Yet my weary soul opprest;

A dreadful darkness closes
On my bewildered mind;
O let me suffer and not sin,
Be tortured yet resigned.

'Tis strange to think there
AS a
When mirth was not an empty name,
When laughter really cheered the heart,

O God! if this indeed be
That Life can show to me;
If on my aching brow may
No freshening dew from Thee;

I love the silent hour of night,
For blissful dreams may then arise,
Revealing to my charmed sight What may not bless my waking eyes.
And then a voice may meet my ear

Blessed be Thou for all the
My soul has felt to-day!
Oh, let its memory stay with me,
And never pass away!

Methought I saw him but I knew him not;
He was so changed from what he used to be,
There was no redness on his woe-worn cheek,
No sunny smile upon his ashy lips,

Oh, weep not, love! each tear that
In those dear eyes of thine,
To me a keener suffering
Than if they flowed from mine.

Sweet are thy strains, celestial Bard;
And oft, in childhood's years,
I've read them o'er and o'er again,
With floods of silent tears.